Summary: Stiles think's it's all just a waste of time. Until somebody begs to differ.
The last time they took him out of the basement, they didn't hurt him. They stood around, watching him, evaluating him. He got nervous under the scrutiny, fidgeting with the restraints they'd put on him. A quick slap to the face stopped that.
"Well, looks like the two of you outlived your use."
Stiles looked at the man, raising an eyebrow, trying to impart his disdain despite the cold and hunger induced shivers which now almost continuously wracked his skinny frame.
"What, punching and breaking the scrawny human has lost its appeal?"
The sarcasm was rewarded with another slap to the face. It hurt, but the coppery taste of blood due to a split lip was infinitely better than the sharp, cold sensation of yet another bone being broken. The man who slapped him stepped back, a calculating look on his face, then uttered a short, humorless grunt.
"No, that never loses its charm. Nor does torturing that freak you're with."
A low growl escaped Stiles' lips, momentarily drawing a look of surprise from the men standing in front of him, followed by disgust.
"You spent too much time with those monsters, kid. Even if we had gotten what we wanted, we'd still not let you go." The man spat on the ground. "You've been tainted."
The rage at those words - because the only monsters he knew were the men standing in this room - was quickly suppressed by something which felt like elation. They hadn't gotten what they were after. Derek hadn't told them anything. Derek hadn't broken down.
He smirked at the realization.
"Guess you've been wasting your time then."
The moment the words were out he felt something change in the room's atmosphere. Felt a charged emotion coming from the men that told him things were to become worse, much worse than they'd been already.
He wasn't wrong.